


It's All Over But the Shouting

by reindeerjumper



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Drunkenness, F/M, I've been reading too many Hartwin fics..., Post-Break Up, Tumblr Prompt, but my soul is too fluffy to let it end angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 18:38:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9838370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/pseuds/reindeerjumper
Summary: “For all its worth,” he started, shoving his hands in his pockets, “I truly don’t need this if you don’t love me like you said you did.”Bridget’s eyes widened as she set her jaw. She could feel the enamel of her teeth grating together as she stared at Mark, fury and disgust rising in her throat like bile. “Get out,” she rasped. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt fill for _MARK X BRIDGET POST BREAK UP KISS, PLEASE GOD. I'M ALIVE FOR THAT!!!!_
> 
> I was originally going to keep it super angsty at the end, but i JUST. CAN'T. DO IT. My soul is natural fluff and nothing can change that. Didn't really do much editing...I'm the worst when it comes to that, so all spelling/grammar errors are totally mine and I'll probably find them when I reread this on my phone and internally cringe at my lack of vigilance.

Six months. It had been six months since they had gotten engaged, and there had been absolutely no headway in terms of planning. No venue had been picked, no colors had been decided on, no cakes had been tasted, and certainly no dress had been bought. It seemed that every time Bridget made an attempt to move forward with marrying Mark, something work-related came up that pushed it back even further than before. 

First, there was the trip that Mark had to take to Macau on behalf of the Royal Embassy. He was gone for a month, with very little chance to contact Bridget. He had come home, and they had made love on practically every possible surface in Bridget’s flat. For a month following they simply enjoyed being together, not wanting to take their time together for granted. Suddenly, though, Mark was once again whisked off to save the world. This time it was to Moscow, and for a total of three months. He had been able to come back for a week on intermittent leave, and once again they christened all surfaces of Bridget’s flat. 

Once he had returned for good, Bridget had been forced to take two weeks time for the Smooth Guidess (this time  _ without _ Daniel Cleaver). Sit Up Britain put her up in a truly incredible hotel room in Honolulu, and she had begged Richard to let Mark come with her. Richard had tried to pull some strings with the budgeting department, but it didn’t seem that they could justify paying for another person to tag along. She had spent the two weeks in her hotel room feeling absolutely miserable and trying to call Mark with every free moment she was granted. When she landed back at Heathrow, Mark had texted her during her flight-- _ Call me when you land.  _ The second she hit baggage claim, she had called Mark.

“Hello, darling,” he had answered, and she had felt her heart swell to twice its size.

“Hello. Are you here?”

 

“That’s why I had you call. I had to leave last night but couldn’t get ahold of you--the calls wouldn’t go through. There was an emergency in Naples that they needed me for, so the put me on the next red eye as soon as they called. I couldn’t say no...they told me I was the only person for the job.”

At these words, Bridget’s heart had sank to the floor.

“Oh.”

“I’m so sorry, darling. I truly am. I had Pierce send you a town car to pick you up--there should be a driver waiting. Look for your name. I’ll be home in a few weeks. Please don’t be upset.”

That was much easier said than done, and Bridget could feel the icy cold realization that their situation just wasn’t working out. It had started in her lungs, causing her breath to come in short, strained puffs, and soon it was crawling up her throat and threatening to come out as a sob. She stood in the middle of Heathrow’s baggage claim, her phone up to her ear, shoulders deflated, and the inevitable feeling of an emotional breakdown thrumming through her chest.

“Bridget? Are you there?” She could hear Mark’s voice on the other end of the line, concern creeping into the edges of his usually cool demeanor. 

“Hm? Oh, yes, sorry. Be safe. Talk to you soon,” she responded, and as if on autopilot, she snapped her phone shut and allowed the tears she had been holding back to fall down her cheeks as she released the sob that had nestled in her chest like a malignant disease.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

During the weeks while Mark was away, he called incessantly. Naples was only one hour ahead of London, so they were practically on the same schedule. He would call when he knew she was awake for work in the morning, during her lunch breaks, at the time she usually left work to go home, during dinner, at night when she usually was sitting watching telly...sometimes she answered, sometimes she didn’t. A numbness had settled into her body and she didn’t really have the energy to play attentive and loving fiance.

Mark, on the other hand, was being the most attentive he had been during their entire relationship. On the days Bridget couldn’t bring herself to answer, Mark would leave her rambling voicemails, asking how she was, telling her how much he missed her, updating her on when he would be home. She listened to them with indifference. When she could muster the energy to answer, she kept her tone clipped and the conversation short--she didn’t really care if he knew about her day-to-day moments, and she couldn’t be bothered with being honest with him about her feelings when he was almost 1300 miles away. 

Four weeks after he had called her at Heathrow, he was on his own plane back to London. Bridget had struggled internally with whether or not she should go pick him up at the airport, and eventually settled on leaving him there to fend for himself. He had done the same to her, and she wanted him to feel the slap of reality like she had. She knew she was being petty and petulant, but the four weeks she spent alone in her flat between her return and his had caused her to assess their relationship. 

How could she ever marry someone whose schedule was crazier than hers? And how in the world could she ever marry someone who didn’t have the decency to talk to her before taking on a job that would keep them apart for four weeks that they hadn’t planned on being apart for? What would happen when they started a family? Would she just be alone all of the time, catching snippets of her husband’s voice over a shitty cell phone signal and emailing him photos of their children so he didn’t miss out on their growing up? It was asinine. 

Bridget watched the clock with vigilance, counting down the time it would take Mark to get to her flat from Heathrow once his 10AM flight landed. She knew he’d come to her first, even before going to his own home. The frequency he had been calling her with was enough insight into what he was thinking--he was scared, and he bloody well should be. Bridget had come to terms with what she needed...it wasn’t what she wanted at all, but she had spent enough of her adulthood seeking out what she needed to know that this wasn’t it.

That knowledge still didn’t brace her for the onslaught of sadness and despair that walked through the door with Mark. 

At 11:00, he had let himself in with his key, overcoat and suit jacket slung over his arm and suitcase in tow. He must have gotten straight onto the plane from a meeting--he was wearing suit trousers and a button-down, but his tie was loose around his neck, the top button of his shirt undone, and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. Even his usually pressed suit trousers were rumpled beyond recognition. His hair was mussed with what looked like lack of sleep, which was also evident by the black circles under his eyes. His face was gaunt and ashen, and she could almost smell the guilt coming off of him. This wave of exhaustion wasn’t from work--it was from tension and worry.

“Bridget,” he said hoarsely when he saw her standing on the landing.

“Mark,” she replied, keeping her tone even and decisive. 

“Bridget, I’m so sorry. I truly am.” Mark dropped his suitcase onto the floor and slung his suit jacket and overcoat onto the railing of the staircase. He walked towards her with hungry need, unsure how to fix the hurt in Bridget’s eyes. Words, actions, he wasn’t sure which...he just needed to get to her and fix it. Before he could fully pull her into an embrace, he stopped short to look into her eyes.

Bridget looked up at him with hollow recognition, her lips drawn into a tight line. There was no warmth in the blue irises that glared up at him, and Bridget couldn’t bring herself to even try. 

“Bridget?” he implored, bringing a hand up to her face to gently brush his thumb along her jawline. She tensed under his touch, a far cry from the usual malleability her body allowed when he was near. His tawny eyes searched her face concernedly. “Are we alright?” he whispered, not daring to get any closer to her.

“No,” Bridget said flatly. “We’re not.” There was a pause and Bridget found herself balling her hands into tight fists, the half-moons of her nails digging exceptionally hard into the meat of her palms. “I think we need to take a break,” she breathed out, her eyes menacingly locked on Mark’s. 

From there, it exploded. 

All of the heat that had been building up inside of Bridget erupted out of her, and Mark met her toe-to-toe. What started out as short, clipped retorts escalated to bellowing, red-faced yells. Ugly words were carelessly thrown around the room with the intention of impact. Words like,  _ selfish, impatient, immature, cold,  _ and  _ irresponsible _ . They were both gesticulating with force and the octaves at which their voices rested were matched. Soon the words shifted from truthful to hurtful-- _ liar, unlovable, a bloody fucking mess, an emotionless man with a heart of ice. _

It went on for an hour, just four feet between them as they allowed themselves to be drug into the depths of ugly, hurtful words and insecurities that they had never spoke of. 

Finally, out of breath and on the verge of tears, Bridget defiantly looked at him. Mark scrubbed a hand over his face, the color in his cheeks high and his entire appearance even more rumpled than when he had walked through the door. 

“For all its worth,” he started, shoving his hands in his pockets, “I truly don’t need this if you don’t love me like you said you did.”

Bridget’s eyes widened as she set her jaw. She could feel the enamel of her teeth grating together as she stared at Mark, fury and disgust rising in her throat like bile. “Get out,” she rasped. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”

Mark looked like the wind had been knocked out of him. He hadn’t expected her to take his bluff, to spew promises like that at him. The muscle in his jaw worked as he looked at her, the tears in his eyes barely discernible. “If that’s what you truly want,” he whispered, “then I will.”

With that, Mark turned on his heel as he ran a hand through his hair. He left the flat with the bang of Bridget’s front door and not a word in her direction.

What Bridget had mistaken as fury had manifested itself as actual sickness, and she quickly ran herself to the bathroom before she lost all composure. Afterwards, she slumped against the cool tile of the wall and allowed the sobs that she had been choking on for days finally bubble to the surface. 

Hours passed. She had called Shaz, sobbing over the line in hiccuped breaths as snot and tears ran down her face. For once in her life, Shaz was speechless. She wasn’t in town, she told Bridget, otherwise she’d come over immediately. “No, no, I want to be alone,” Bridget had slurred into the phone, her breath unable to catch itself in her chest. For what felt like five minutes was actual an hour’s worth of a phone call before she finally excused herself with endless apologies. “I’m sorry, Shaz. I’m so sorry. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine, promise. Thanks for listening.” Click. 

As a last resort to fill the aching void in her chest, she called her mother. Pam Jones, despite all of her idiosyncrasies, was actually a source of comfort for Bridget. She soothingly whispered reassurances down the line as Bridget lay on the couch, hiccuping and snuffling. She spoke to her daughter for two hours, telling her to breathe and trying to calm her down. The only thing missing was her running her hands through Bridget’s hair like she usually did when Bridget was upset. By the end of the phone call, Bridget’s sobs had calmed significantly, even though silent tears still ran tracks down her cheeks. She thanked Pam profusely, promising to call her tomorrow. 

It was nearing 4:00 when Bridget finally peeled herself from the couch to wander aimlessly around her flat. She got a glass of water and drank half of it before feeling sick again. She tried listening to a CD that was still in her stereo, but it made her think of Mark and she started to cry against her will. The framed photo of her and Mark from a barbeque the past summer looked out at her with ironic malice, and she slammed it facedown to avoid having to look at it. As she continued to pad around her flat, Mark’s suitcase, overcoat and suit jacket caught her eye.

For some reason, the tangible pieces of Mark that still resided on her landing made something catch in her throat. Gently, she peeled his suit jacket away from the overcoat and brought it to her face. It smelled like Mark--woodsy and fresh, with a hint of soap and sweat. Tears leaked out of her eyes as she held it against her face with trembling hands. Defeatedly, she made her way back to the couch. She placed her cell phone on the coffee table, eyeing it cautiously in the hopes that he would call and apologize and the whole thing would blow over. 

He didn’t, though...and neither did she. 

Bridget slowly lowered her body onto the couch, clutching Mark’s suit jacket to the front of her as the tracks of her tears lay sticky on her cheeks. Before she knew it, the exhaustion from her excessive crying overtook her, and she drifted off.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

When Bridget blearily awoke, it was dark outside with only a lamp from the kitchen casting a golden glow into the living room. A noise had jarred her from her sleep, and her head was pounding with an emotional hangover. She could hear someone fumbling with her front door, and her whole body tensed as she lay on the couch in the semi-dark. She could hear a key disengage the lock, which eased her panic, and she soon heard Mark’s voice muttering to himself. Unable to face him just yet, Bridget continued to lie on the couch pretending to be asleep.

Mark’s typically confident gait sounded...off. He stumbled a bit, the sound of his shoes scuffing the linoleum on her landing. Bridget listened to him trudge up the stairs to the junction of the living room and kitchen. He seemed to pause, and she could hear him still muttering to himself. Heavy footfalls started to approach where she lay, and it was suddenly very obvious to Bridget that he was drunk. The muttering abruptly stopped, and Bridget could feel his presence in her proximity. She kept her eyes closed, trying to keep her breathing as normal as possible.

Mark took a step towards her, and she heard him let out a choked, “Beautiful.” She swallowed. He shuffled forward again, and she heard him fall roughly to his knees. Bridget could hear the wool of his trousers dragging roughly against her carpet as he inched himself towards her. She could smell whisky on his breath as it hung between them like a hot, heavy bubble. It smelled as if he had drank all of the whisky in London. There was no denying just how close he was to her--she could feel his warm breath running across her cheek and she could hear each exhale.

“My beautiful, darling Bridget,” he slurred. 

Suddenly, he pressed his lips against her forehead in a gentle, sloppy kiss. 

She couldn’t help startling at the unanticipated gesture. Her eyes flickered open, and she saw Mark looking down at her with an adoring, drunken gaze. Sadness was etched into the laugh lines that bracketed his eyes, and even though a smile of adoration was tracing his lips, it wasn’t without some indication of pain and sorrow. With some effort, Mark leaned back on his calves as he allowed his hands to flop defeatedly into his lap. His tie had completely disappeared, and Bridget could see the collar of his undershirt peeking out from the unbuttoned top of his oxford. The curls on top of his head were askew, as if he had run a hand through it an innumerable amount of times. 

“Please don't be mad that I'm here,” he whispered, swaying slightly on his knees. 

“Mark...what  _ are _ you doing back here?”

He shrugged. “Drunk. Needed my things. Wanted to see you.” A delayed smile crept across his mouth, causing his eyes to crinkle and allowing a sudden deluge of tears to escape the corners of his eyes. He made no move to wipe them away. 

It was in that moment that Bridget's heart shattered into a million pieces. 

“Oh, Mark,” she whispered, sitting up on the couch. She placed Mark’s suit jacket next to her and leaned forward. “Where did you go?” she asked, still not daring to touch him for fear of completely losing herself. 

“The pub across the street,” he murmured, his syllables sounding cotton covered and lazy. “Wanted to numb whatever...this was,” he continued, gesturing to his chest with a flattened hand.

“What do you mean?” Bridget said, concern marring her features.

“Felt like I’d been stabbed, right here,” Mark said, poking himself in the center of his chest with a rigid finger. “Never felt that way before...needed to get rid of it.” He let out a hiccup, causing him to sway ever so slightly on his knees. Once he had steadied himself, he locked eyes with Bridget and gave her a small, sad smile. “I...I know it was only a few...few hours, but I guess I...missed you.” 

The random trails of tears that had leaked out of his eyes from earlier had started back up, rolling their way down his cheeks and disappearing into his collar. Bridget had never seen Mark cry, and twice in one night was enough to rip her to shreds. She leaned closer to Mark, allowing her hands to reach out and gently cup his face in her palms. Her hands felt cool against his alcohol-soaked skin, and the heat from his tears rolled across the backs of her hands as she valiantly tried to wipe them away.

“Mark,” she whispered, feeling her own eyes well up. “Don’t you understand? That’s the whole reason this happened...I miss you every single second I’m away from you. I miss you when I wake up, and I miss you when I go to sleep. I miss you when I’m eating dinner by myself here in the flat, or when I’m on a balcony in Honolulu. I miss you even when you’re just a room over from me, doing whatever barrister crap you have to do. My heart aches when you’re not by me, Mark. That’s why I said I didn’t want to see you again...if I can’t have you all of the time, then I don’t want to have to deal with the pain at all.”

The sad smile that had been lingering on Mark’s face crumpled into pathetic, pained sadness as his eyes crinkled shut. He was desperately trying to will the tears leaking out of him to stop, but they continued to come. Bridget felt one of his large hands cover hers as they continued to cradle his cheeks, and he gave it an affectionate squeeze. A very strangled, muffled sob left his throat as he held her hand, nuzzling his cheek into her palm. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. HIs throat strangled the words, barely choking them out. “I’m sorry for ever hurting you. I miss you, Bridget. I don’t...I don’t work without you,” he continued, finally opening his eyes and looking at her with a watery gaze. “Please forgive me. Please.” 

Bridget took a shaky breath. “I forgive you, Mark. We have a lot to talk about and a lot to figure out, but you’re completely pissed and I don’t think now’s the time. But yes, I forgive you. Do you forgive me?”

A timid smile crept across his face as an occasional tear ran down his cheeks. “Of course I do, Bridget. With my whole heart.” At this, Mark took the hand that he was still holding against his face and gave it a gentle tug. Bridget took his lead and allowed herself to be dragged down from the couch and into his lap. He wrapped his long arms around her, burying his tearstained face into her hair. 

Bridget allowed herself to melt against him, craving the embrace he enveloped her in. She buried her nose into the crook of his neck where a spanse of skin showed itself. Taking a deep breath, she decided that the fresh, woodsy scent she had desperately clung to on Mark’s suit jacket was a far cry from the real thing, even if Mark also smelled like the bottom of a liquor bottle. She let her arms wrap around Mark as she rubbed comforting circles against his back, her voice pressing reassuring noises against his Adam’s apple as she felt the tears falling from his eyes slowly begin to subside. 

“Are you staying tonight?” she murmured against his neck, letting her lips press against his skin. 

She felt Mark’s grip on her tighten. “I’m staying forever,” he murmured, the thickness of his drunk tongue dulling his usually sharp consonants. “If you’ll have me.”

“Of course I’ll have you,” Bridget responded, pulling back to look him in the eye. He had stopped crying, his face splotchy and slightly swollen. Bridget brought a hand up to run the pad of her thumb against his cheekbone and she let it linger on the crow’s feet by his eye. Leaning in, Bridget pressed her lips against Mark’s. He kissed her back in a way that wasn’t hungry or lustful--instead, it was a kiss full of relief and thanks, one that held promises for the future and apologies for the past. When it broke apart, Bridget felt a significant weight release from her chest.

“Let’s get you to bed,” she said, standing up and offering him her hand. Mark took it and shakily got to his feet. Bridget led him to the bedroom by the hand and had him sit on the foot her bed. She knew he wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t undress himself, but she wanted to take care of him. Slowly, she started to undo the remaining buttons on his oxford, sliding her hands between the cotton of his undershirt and the fabric of his oxford. Mark obediently put his arms out to his sides as Bridget slid the shirt off of his torso, and she placed a kiss against the mussed curls on top of his head. She folded the shirt in half and laid it next to Mark. Next, she tugged on Mark’s undershirt until it came loose from the waist of his trousers, and she pulled it up over his head in one fluid motion. Instead of placing it on top of the oxford, she tossed into her own hamper--she’d take care of laundry later. 

Mark’s hair was now a tangled mess on top of his head, some of it sticking to his forehead while some of it shot straight out from his scalp. Bridget ran a hand through his hair, raking her nails across his scalp which elicited a groan from Mark. Knowing how much he loved it, Bridget continued to run her nails through Mark’s hair as he pulled her closer to him by the hips. He placed his cheek against her stomach, allowing himself to enjoy the sensation of Bridget’s hands on his scalp. After a moment, Bridget leaned down and placed a kiss against his hair. 

Next, she kneeled in front of Mark and began to unlace his shoes. Mark started to protest. 

“Bridget, I can do that,” he said, leaning his forearms on his knees. 

“I know you can. But I want to do it for you.”

She continued to busy herself with the laces as Mark let out an exasperated sigh above her. She smiled to herself. Grabbing his left ankle, she lifted his foot and slid the shoe off, following suit with the right. She took both shoes and placed them neatly behind her, next to her armoire. Turning back to Mark, she could see him wiggling his toes in relief, and he gave her a sleepy smile from where he was perched above her. She smiled back at him before peeling his socks off and throwing them into the hamper on top of his undershirt. 

“Up,” she commanded gently, getting off of the floor and standing in front of him. Mark stood with a wobbly start, grasping Bridget’s hips for support. Bridget undid his belt with deft hands, letting it drop to the floor by the bed. She then unbuttoned his fly and shimmied him out of his suit trousers, leaving him in nothing but a pair of plaid boxers. Bridget folded the trousers and placed them on top of the folded oxford. She picked both up and put them on the chair in her room before returning to Mark. He pressed a kiss against her hairline before placing his own forehead against hers. 

“I like when you take care of me,” he slurred sleepily.

“I know you do. Lucky for you, I like doing it,” she replied quietly, chucking him under the chin with her finger. “I’ll be right back--let me go grab some pajamas out of your suitcase.” 

Mark sat heavily back down on the foot of the bed, his eyes half-closed and a smile on his face. Bridget left the room, but not without a fond look at Mark over her shoulder. She first went to the kitchen to grab Mark a big glass of water and some paracetamol before heading to the landing where Mark’s suitcase still sat. She zipped it open and rummaged through it. Finally, she found a pair of plaid pajama bottoms and an old sleep t-shirt. Bridget put everything into her arms, the glass of water dangling from her hand, and made her way back to the bedroom.

Instead of finding Mark where she had left him, he had somehow migrated to the top of the bed and had slipped under the covers. He was still awake, but clearly could care less about his pajamas. Seeing her walk in, Mark lifted the edge of the comforter and beckoned for Bridget to join him. 

“C’mere,” he muttered. 

“Give me a second,” she replied. She placed the water and paracetamol on the nightstand next to him before placing a kiss against the crown of curls on his head. “For tomorrow morning,” she said, nodding toward the glass. “Ten quid says you’re going to feel like utter shit.”

Mark guffawed at that, saying, “I believe you.”

Bridget made her way around the bed to her own side and quickly shed her own clothes. She took far less pains with stowing them properly--she mainly left them in a pile on the floor, taking care to kick them towards the wall so she wouldn’t trip in the middle of the night. Standing next to the bed in just her knickers, Mark gave her a coy smile to which Bridget sarcastically rolled her eyes. 

“You wish,” she muttered, giving him a wink. Since Mark had opted against the pajamas, Bridget pulled Mark’s sleep shirt over her own head, the familiar scent of Mark assaulting her senses as it passed over her face. “How’s this?” she asked, holding out her arms.

“Perfect. You’re...perfect,” he replied in a sleep drunk tone. “Now c’mere.”

Bridget climbed under the comforter and slid her body up against the warmth of Mark’s. Mark draped a heavy arm across her torso and pulled himself closer to her. His head nestled against the curve of her neck, and Bridget could feel the soft puffs of breath escaping his lips. She arched her neck to plant a kiss against his forehead. 

“I love you, Mark Darcy,” she whispered.

At that point, though, Mark was gone. His body lay boneless against her, the puffs of breath creeping across her skin taking on a rhythmic pattern. Even with the snoring that was inevitably going to rip across the bedroom at any second, Bridget couldn’t help basking in the feeling of having Mark next to her, his warm weight pressed up against her body. 

Funny how four weeks had been too long, and twelve hours had felt like an eternity. 

  
  



End file.
